by Brad Taylor
We were huge on the cover organization and support side, but really, really small on the tippy end of the spear. We had five teams total, comprising between five and ten men—all hand-selected—but we had literally thousands supporting us, be it in generating intelligence for targets, hacking for cyber penetration, or just cover organizations like Grolier Recovery Services.
Because we were so unique, Kurt had eschewed the traditional military mind-set of a pyramid, where the commander was in charge based on time-in-grade and not on the situation at hand. Sometimes, there was no reason to have any higher headquarters, and unlike the military, Kurt realized this. The greater military had spent the years in the War on Terror building one headquarters after another, until the warfighter was buried in bureaucracy, building PowerPoints for one useless layer after another.
Kurt had done the opposite. He’d let us run free, without an overarching command, trusting us to do what was right, but he’d picked one officer to be the man in charge when the time came, like plug and play. When we reached an endgame and were about to execute an action with national implications—what we called an Omega operation—the leadership meshed on top of us. And that guy was Blaine Alexander.
I said, “Why the hell is Blaine getting SERB paperwork? He’s the cream of the crop. Well, at least as far as you officer types go.”
Kurt smiled at the slur and said, “Because he’s been shining a seat with his ass at the Joint Staff for the last four years. While his peers have been in combat.”
“Yeah? That’s his cover position. You don’t have a way to protect him?”
Blaine, like all the members of the Taskforce—like I had done before I became a civilian—lived a dual life. They killed or captured terrorists in secret but were officially assigned to a real military unit. While they faced the guns and dying, they were given reports for some innocuous position inside the giant Department of Defense architecture. Actually, inside the greater government, as we had members of the CIA doing the same thing.
Kurt said, “I could have, but I fucked him. He was turned down for colonel on two promotion boards because, according to his file, he’s done nothing. He didn’t care, because he loves his job, but I missed the signals. I mean, he has a good file, but it’s all fake-ass staff work at the Pentagon, while his peers have been commanding guys in combat. I never thought about how this would play out long-term. I figured he could stay forever. Turns out, the Army had a different idea. I screwed him.”
Knuckles said, “Surely you can fix that. I mean, we are the Taskforce.”
Staring into his beer, Kurt said, “Yeah, yeah. I can, and I will. He’ll be okay, rankwise, but that doesn’t alter the bigger problem. He makes colonel, and he’s the same rank as me. We don’t have a job for another colonel. There’s no position for him. I can control the structure and positions of those below me, but I can’t have him on my staff with the same rank. He’ll have to go anyway.”
I said, “Then you just go to general officer. Get your brigadier. Shit, we have the entire intelligence and defense establishment on the Oversight Council. How hard could that be?”
“I thought of that, and talked it over with Wolffe. The problem is that GO appointments are approved by Congress. I also haven’t been doing a damn thing for the last six years. As far as my records show, I’m nothing but a burned-out colonel on the staff of the J3 Special Operations division. Yeah, the powers in the Oversight Council could make it happen, but it would never pass without intervention, which will invite scrutiny.”
He pushed a toothpick through the ring his beer had made on the table. He looked old. Older than I’d ever seen him look before.
He said, “Shit, have you seen the political knife fights that go on here? In this town? No way can I let that investigation get started. Some eager beaver opposed to the administration will tear into the nomination for political points, and possibly expose the Taskforce. Bring down the administration.”
17
Kurt made the statement in such a manner that the promotion meant nothing at all. Which was what I would expect from him. All he wanted to do was solve the problem, as he’d been doing for decades.
Jennifer said, “What does the rank matter? I get I’ve never been in the military, but isn’t that sort of the same BS you tried to get away from when you made the Taskforce? I mean, I don’t have any rank, and yet you trusted me in the Caymans. Pike’s no longer in the military, and he’s leading a team.”
I said, “Yeah. Why don’t you just make Blaine a civilian? A GS-15 or something? Hell, your own deputy is a civilian.”
Kurt said, “Wolffe is a standing member of the CIA. Hardly a civilian.”
George Wolffe was a legend in the CIA, working inside the Special Activities Division, he’d been involved in just about every covert action the United States had conducted, both good and bad.
I said, “But Blaine is of the same mettle. Just because he’ll become a civilian doesn’t mean he’s going to become a civilian. Any more than I did.”
Kurt took another sip of his beer and said, “I’m not worried about Blaine. Or you, for that matter. I’m worried about what I created. About the Taskforce. We’re starting to get entrenched. Starting to be something other than a flash in the pan, and what we do now will solidify who we are.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I can’t control the future. It means if I choose Blaine as a civilian because he’s Blaine, someone in the future may choose another civilian who isn’t Blaine. It means I’ve created something that needs to have left and right limits.”
He took a sip of beer and continued. “Honestly, I’m worried about the precedent I’ve set with you. You and Jennifer. We had firm criteria to get into the Taskforce, and I broke that because of personalities. I did it for the right reasons, but someone behind me can abuse it. I have to prevent that.”
I realized he was talking about things way, way above my pay grade. I said, “Are you saying you’re leaving?”
“No, no. Not yet. But there’s a presidential election coming up, and a change of administration one way or the other. President Warren is leaving, and we have to prepare for that. He created the Taskforce, and he’s all we’ve known. This isn’t like the Department of Defense, where the president changes over but the systems remain intact. When the new administration is read on, it’ll be a new world. They’ll focus on what’s been established, and may—or may not—use it as it was intended. It worries me.”
He looked at each of us in turn, then said, “I hand-selected each of you. I picked you, recruited you, then put you through selection.” Jennifer leaned back, and he amended his statement, saying, “Okay, I didn’t hand-select you, Jennifer, but I did let you go through selection because I’d seen what you held. Hear me out.”
He toyed with his pint glass, thinking, then said, “I had that control, but I won’t always have it. The next man may choose a different route, and all it will take is one man to go bad to bring this whole thing down.”
He bored into me and said, “Like you almost did.”
I felt like I’d been slapped. Yeah, I’d made an ass of myself, sinking into a morass of alcohol and self-hatred, but I’d never done anything to compromise the Taskforce. I said, “Hey, sir, all due respect, that’s bullshit. I would—”
He cut me off with a hand and said, “There’s a reason I asked both of you up here. Jennifer gets the award, but I need your skill. Your special skill.”
The table grew quiet. Still fuming, I waited on his next words. He said, “You know Guy George?”
I said, “Yeah. You know I do. We were in the same troop when you were the squadron commander.”
“I think he’s going off the reservation. Understand, I have no proof. Just a vibe. The same one I had with you, way back when. I ignored it then, not knowing any better, but I don’t intend to repeat that. I think he’s got a
vendetta because of his brother. I want you to talk him off the ledge.”
I said, “How? Why me?”
He said, “The how is your damn information from the Caymans. I had him here in the headquarters, collating information, getting some downtime. He took your data from the castle operation, and sure as shit, the guy there was potentially one of the pictures on his brother’s target package. Originally, he was convinced that a Qatari was behind his brother’s death, some bigwig in the government, and we stood him down on that because of a lack of evidence. It was conspiracy theory stuff. Then, when your data appeared, showing another Qatari who was associated with the first, his face also on the target package, he went ballistic. He’s convinced they killed his brother.”
I leaned back and said, “Well, maybe they did.”
Kurt took a deep breath, choosing his next words carefully. “Yeah, maybe they did. I want to bring the new evidence to the Council tomorrow. At Jennifer’s award ceremony. I want to get sanction to chase them, and I will. The guys from Qatar won’t kill anyone else, but they’ll be removed from the chessboard by an official Taskforce mission. Not because of a vendetta. I need you to make that happen.”
Confused, I said, “How? You want me to go hunt the guys from Qatar? I’m all ears, but I don’t have a Taskforce target package.”
“No. I want you to go to Montana. Go talk to Guy. He’s about to walk off the cliff, and you’ve been there. You know what he’s going through. Talk to him. You guys were in the same troop, and he respects you. Just don’t let him do anything stupid.”
The waitress came over and I asked for a rum and Coke. The beer wasn’t cutting it. I knew that, in order to do what he said, I’d have to dip a toe into my own blackness. Hell, to succeed in bringing Guy back from the abyss, I’d probably have to roll in the blackness like a stripper in oil. It was something I’d worked hard to leave behind, and definitely didn’t want to revisit.
Kurt saw my face and said, “Pike, I wouldn’t ask. I really wouldn’t, but I think this is important. Just go talk to him. Let him know where you were, and what happened. Let him know there’s better ways of handling it.”
I took a breath and looked at Knuckles. At my teammate. He nodded. Solemn.
I said, “Okay. I’ll do it. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it.”
I felt the tendrils of the beast, laughing at how easy it was to return.
When I’d lost my family, I became what some would call a sociopath. Before, I had been a trained killer at the apex of the predator chain, but with a moral compass. I did what was necessary to protect the United States. I was the White Knight keeping people from harm. After my loss, I was still an apex predator. That hadn’t disappeared.
But my compass had.
If Guy was the same way, Kurt had a lot more worries than getting Blaine promoted.
18
Even in the wintertime, Key West was muggy. Cool and crisp in the morning, the early dawn had relinquished its grip, giving way to the heat of the southernmost point in the United States.
Guy sat on a park bench outside the Westin Resort, in front of a marina housing very expensive yachts, all in the shadow of a giant cruise ship. His eyes were on one boat in particular.
Finding a spot just south of the famed Mallory Square, now deserted by the street performers and sidewalk vendors who plied the tourists coming to watch the sunset, he’d been sitting in front of the docks, drinking coffee, since nine in the morning. It was going on noon, and so far, outside of seeing some crew members, there was no other movement on the boat. The only activity had been the cruise ship vomiting out its passengers for a day in Key West. His target had not shown, and Guy was wondering if he’d missed him, mistakenly relying on his earlier reconnaissance of the target’s pattern of life.
The yacht itself was large by any standards except the cruise ship, with a line that stretched over a hundred feet, a sleek, modern vessel with sweeping decks that made it look somewhat like a large dart. It had been little trouble to locate. With the information Pike had turned up, all it had taken was asking a few questions of some locals, and a quick trip to major marinas in Key West that were big enough to house such a beast. He knew the vessel would have to register, having come from out of the country, and he found it after a little more than an hour of pedaling his rented bike up and down the island, talking to the dockmasters. The large marina in Key West Bight held many such yachts, but his target was not moored there. He’d eventually located it outside of the Westin Resort.
He’d watched it for one cycle of darkness, finding his target and shadowing him, still in the myth that he was just pretending. Just seeing if he could do what his brother demanded. Ironically, he knew the boardwalk in front of the Westin Resort intimately, as it was just south of Fleming Key and the US Army’s Special Forces Combat Diver Qualification Course, a school he had attended not too many years ago—and one his brother was set to attend when he returned from Afghanistan. Nothing much had changed in Key West, but for what he needed to do, he had to remain completely anonymous, and the location wasn’t advantageous.
Among all the quacks and hermits of Key West, he had a greater fear of bumping into a friend from Special Forces than he did of the target identifying he was being followed. Truthfully, that was always a perennial danger inside the Taskforce. They penetrated the most hostile nations on Earth, and there weren’t that many people who could. The men and women who could do so would routinely know each other from a past life, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d run into some badass pretending to be a pipeline surveyor while he himself was pretending to be an investment banker. But now he would be the only one professing a false reason to be in Key West. Better not to ever meet, as the soldier would invariably invite him for a night of debauchery and take him away from his target. Not that he intended to do anything with the guy anyway.
At least that’s what he kept telling himself.
By four in the afternoon, he’d had lunch, walked through the shopping area, and had gelato at an outdoor café in view of the dock. Even the cruise ship was gone, taking its passengers to another port of call, and Guy realized he was wearing out his welcome. While many, many people sat and watched the view at this location, none stayed as long as him. There were several hired security guards along the wharf whose job was to look for anomalies in the people walking about, searching for trouble, and Guy was beginning to feel his heat state. Beginning to back off of his plan.
Since, well, he had no plan.
At fifteen minutes past five, eating his third gelato, he saw the target break the bridge of the yacht, talking to a crew member and wearing board shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops. The neatly groomed mustache completed the ensemble, making him look like every other tourist in Key West.
Guy exited the shop and sauntered around the dock, passing the wooden path leading from the boat to dry land. Guy took a seat in Mallory Square, knowing his target was headed to Duval Street. It was now closing in on sunset, and the tourists crowds were gathering around the street performers. Perfect for blending in.
He made as if he wanted to watch someone right at the tip of the square, a graying, long-haired man with a pride of cats. He had no idea what the draw was, but the crowd provided Guy the protection he needed. Pretending to watch catman, he kept one eye on the entrance to the square. He watched the target break out of the crowds near the dock and pass by him, oblivious to his presence.
Guy followed, now intent on tracking his prey. Or just following out of idle curiosity. He wasn’t really sure which, and not looking too hard to find out. Deep down, in his soul, he knew this was ridiculous.
What was he doing? Really? Was he going to kill this guy in Key West? On US soil, all because of a grainy picture glued to an armband from Afghanistan? Seriously?
He was way outside of any official sanction. He was in the United States, where the Taskforce was forbidde
n from operating, tracking a guy who had no Taskforce mandate. Not even exploratory Alpha, and certainly not Omega, with a rider of DOA. It took many, many months and reams of evidence to give Omega for a capture mission, and an imminent threat to American lives to sanction the Omega authority with the caveat of Dead or Alive. He had nothing but derision from the Taskforce commander about his theory.
He pushed the questions to the rear and wove between the crowds, keeping his target in sight.
The man took a right at a juncture of the square and walked down a narrow alley lined with beer drinkers and incredibly bad acoustic musicians mangling Jimmy Buffett. Guy followed, wondering if there was some sort of gravitational pull for musicians that caused all caterwauling guitar players to end up in Key West.
The target reached an intersection with a park. Guy hung back, near enough to still be tormented by the music, watching and waiting. A waitress approached and he waved her away, seeing the Arab enter the park. Trouble.
No more than fifty meters across, it was a jungle of busts on concrete stalks, a history of the men and women of Key West, with a large sculpture in the center of the area. The target was reading the plaques below the busts, leaving Guy at a disadvantage.
The park had a separate exit, meaning the man could escape before Guy could react from the far side. Guy could either follow in, as the only other man to do so, or wait. If he followed, he’d be remembered. Not burned, but definitely remembered. He needed the burn to happen at execution. Not now.
But if he didn’t follow, the target would exit on a different street. Away from where he was. He would lose him. Not a game changer, because odds were he could just repeat the stakeout the following day, but the risks increased with that, both because of the security guards remembering him and because he wasn’t sure how long the target was staying in Key West. Guy might wake up tomorrow only to find the boat gone, his mission foiled.
And maybe that was for the best. But something in Guy didn’t think so. Wouldn’t think that way.
